


Foundations

by wildparsnips



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 12:36:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2547689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildparsnips/pseuds/wildparsnips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>just a tiny tender tale covering Ezio's POV during the first part of AC II ... and a wee bit before. enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foundations

Ezio is on a walk with his mother, father, big brother, and little sister.

Or rather, he is being dragged by his mother as he protests ( not so ) quietly behind her, for it is oh,  _so_  very warm out today, and do they really have to walk now? Couldn’t they wait to go out until it rains?

His small, round hand is squeezed firmly—but gently, as parents do—to assure him that he will not be winning this one-sided argument. Frustrated, he huffs loudly and furrows his brows.  _Yes, that will show them_ —how could they go on living with such guilty consciences, knowing that poor Ezio is  _not_  having a good time?

As per usual, neither his mother nor father take much notice to his silent fit beyond the usual sigh ( on his mother’s part ) and low chuckle ( on his father’s ). Federico glances back at him and smirks, however, flashing a cheeky smile as if to further ridicule him—Ezio is embarrassed enough, having come out of this battle empty-handed. How cruel of his brother! Ezio makes a note to put something rancid under his pillow before bed.

The Auditores’ midday stroll continues, despite Ezio’s reluctance to carry on or to even be there in the first place, really.

Eventually his sour attitude is diminished, and is instead replaced by something of curiousity. A group of brightly clad men dance and strum their lutes around a rather agitated woman, who stands several meters in front of him; he watches intently as they duck, scatter, regroup, scatter, regroup once more, duck, and finally disperse for good as the woman flings her arms about angrily. What is it Federico said about those types of fellows? They were … beards? barbs? Did he not also say that when you give one a florin, it will split into two and bother you until you give each another? Ah, what nonsense—Ezio does not believe in such childish tales. But … Well, maybe he should ask his father. Just in case.

He turns his head up and away from the woman ( who is now complaining rapidly to the unwilling audience standing next to her ) to get his father’s attention. What happens instead, though, is that Ezio’s own attention wanders almost instantly at the sight of another anxious child, held captive by their own parents. They turn to face Ezio, as if they could feel his amber gaze drilling into the back of their skull.

Not being nearly as captivated with Ezio as Ezio is with them, they resume scowling at the collection of pottery their parents are cooing over; and although their glance was fleeting, Ezio finds himself reflective over how bizarre they looked, long after he is back home in the courtyard with a full belly. It is not often one sees a Florentine with such lightly colored hair, or so pale a skin tone.

He is reclined on a carpet with his feet in the air and a sheet of paper under his hand, humming and making incredibly heartfelt illustrations of dogs with a thick chunk of charcoal. As he does, considers the child from earlier. He does not like girls—he is  _much_  too busy terrorizing the neighbors’ animals or climbing trees to deal with such things—but he very much so liked them. Or rather their hair. Is this what those bed time stories his mother told him and Claudia prattled on about? Could this be …  _love?_  Love of … hair? He blinks very slowly and yawns. Aren’t people supposed to fall in love with smiles instead?

He thinks he will talk to Federico about grown-up stuff later, and learn how to deal with these hair-loving feelings … Ezio is almost eight, after all … He is practically a grown-up himself. If he is going to make it in this world, he better know how to properly woo hair. But for now, he is simply a drowsy boy who had a most busy day … Maybe … he will ask in the morning …

In his half-awake state, Ezio feels himself pressed against a warm body and carried into his room.

 

\- - - - -

 

Taking a deep breath, Ezio strides out into the early morning warmth just beyond their villa. His mother has asked him to come with her to pick up some paintings she commissioned by a local artist. Ezio is a bit reluctant to go, of course, but it is not the worst thing he could be doing—he would much rather play carrier and stretch his legs than he would learn banking from his father.

His mother chatters about the painter they’re going to see as they wind through Florence’s dusty streets. She seems to be repressing her excitement, carrying herself with such dignity and grace that Ezio has known since his youth. She must have commissioned something marvelous, he bets. Grimly, Ezio hopes she did not mention its subject matter in passing to him, for if she had, he has forgotten it already.

They wander for a short time until they come to a studio with a hooded, decorative door. Ezio’s mother touches him on the arm and gives him a  _look_ , as if silently instructing him to be polite ( did she really think he needed to be reminded of that? ), and then knocks on the door. Ezio unfolds his arms and shifts his weight.

The door creaks open, and a slightly smaller, cheerful man pops into existence—almost literally. The striking color of his hat and his eyes make Ezio take a step back, he is so surprised. The man embraces his mother, who happily returns the gesture, and then turns to Ezio, smiling. He extends his hand as Ezio’s mother introduces her son to the artist, and the artist to her son.

“Ah! So you are Ezio, hm? I have been told many wonderful things about you.”

Ezio somewhat absently shakes Leonardo’s hand. His grip is strong.

Quickly he pulls back and claps his palms together; somewhat flustered, he disappears into his studio, buzzing enthusiastically about his work and emerging a moment later with a large box full of … art stuffs. Ezio’s mother turns to Ezio and once again rests her hand on his arm, giving him another  _look_. This one is less patronizing and more sympathetic in nature, though, much to Ezio’s inward approval; she requests that he help Leonardo carry his creations back to the villa. Ezio mumbles in reply and complies. He watches as his mother and Leonardo begin the trek back home.

Ezio trails behind them, listening with one half of his brain and getting somewhat lost in the other. Leonardo reminds him of … someone. The blacksmith? No. The tailor, perchance? No, no, that’s not it …  _Oh!_  The child with the light hair and pale skin, the one he saw so long ago! It is Leonardo’s odd sandy-blond queue that brings the memory back, and with it the unfortunate, familiar sense of confusion.

Completely engrossed in his thoughts, Ezio misses something his mother has directed at him. He was attentive enough to hear her voice, though, and with a jolt he blurts, “What?” She raises an eyebrow and echos that he can put her paintings down. Yes, right, naturally that is what she wanted—they have arrived at the villa.

As smoothly as he can, Ezio places the box on the ground and, once he has returned to eye-level, glances over at Leonardo. His face is speckled with sun-spots, and his wide eyes are filled with gratitude. The man seems to radiate happiness, or at least a sense of joy, and he grins pleasantly as he bows graciously. Ezio’s heart gives a single, powerful  _thud_ against his chest and he feels a rush of … some sort of emotion pulse through him ( not very comfortably, might he add ).

Later, Ezio finds himself lounging on a rooftop. The sun set is lamentably dull this evening, but he finds he is not that bothered by it. In fact, he almost doesn’t process the event at all because he is so preoccupied within his own head.

Leonardo.  _Hmm_. Bit of an odd fellow, really; at least from what Ezio can tell. He seemed amicable enough, though, so perhaps … Ezio will visit him, get to know him better—Ezio’s mother  _had_  suggested it … Or perhaps not. Perhaps that is a terrible idea. Perhaps that surge of emotion was because he had suffered from a very mild heart attack, perhaps there really wasn’t any connection at all with him. Then why dwell on all this? Perhaps Ezio does not fully understand what is going on.

He groans softly and digs the heel of his hand into his eyes. Perhaps talking with Christina will clear things up.

 

\- - - - -

 

After careful research, Ezio comes to a conclusion: Leonardo is endearing. To say the least.

Ezio is sitting in the artist’s cluttered studio at the moment, musing over a couple of sketches Leonardo has produced of some strange inventions. Leonardo has his back to Ezio, excitedly narrating his “wondrous plans” with broad hand motions. They have been meeting for a while now, becoming fast friends after a coincidence led Leonardo to Ezio’s aid, just as a pack of wild minstrels had made their descent on his bloated wallet. It has been surprisingly nice being acquainted with someone who is not as … rambunctious as some of his other friends. Leonardo is not boring, certainly, but Ezio has never found himself in a street-wide brawl at his side.

Propping himself up with one arm, Ezio reaches with the other for a brush nearby. He lifts it and carries it dexterously over to one of the sketches and, stealing a quick glance at Leonardo, quickly draws a vulgar and anatomically incorrect body part on it. When Leonardo finally notices it, Ezio is almost out the door; he is stopped abruptly by his own laughter, however. Leonardo attempts to scold him, but finds he is snickering as well; and so their mirth fuels the other, and soon they are both doubled over and in tears.

A crude, simple joke—Ezio has made the same one many times before. He does not ever remember laughing so hard, though.

 

\- - - - -

 

Ezio is running.

He does not know where he is going, but he is running.

His legs are heavy. He can feel a bruise forming near his wrist. His clothes sag down on him and breathing feels like a burden, he cannot see, his vision is blurred, his throat is clogged and his entire being feels as if it is coming undone. He flings himself around a corner gasping, gasping for air, he is choking.

He is breaking.

He is coming undone.

Closing his eyes does not help. He is haunted by the images of his family, of Petruccio, of his young, dear Petruccio, as he sank to the bottom of the Arno, surrounded by the rest of the Auditore men. Never will he get the feathers he so longingly desired. Never will Ezio know what he wanted them for.

His mother … and Claudia. What will Ezio say to them? What can he  _do?_

 

\- - - - -

 

He is pounding on a door—whose door? His own? He cannot remember how he got here, or when he made the decision to come, but suddenly he is toppling forward, and there are tears, audible tears, rolling over his nose and cheeks and chin, dribbling to the ground as he himself falls.

He is caught by sturdy arms,  _loving_  arms, arms that pull him into the warmth of a candle-lit room and hold him very tenderly. They follow him and don’t let go as his knees give and he slumps down again. Ezio’s head is hanging low, and with every violent sob he shudders. He is babbling now, he knows, but he cannot stop. He presses his palms into the chest in front of him, squeezing his eyes shut so fiercely he sees fireworks dance behind his eyelids. A voice, so quiet, so soft and familiar, works its way into his head:  _Ezio, what’s wrong? What has happened?_

Ezio tries to regain control over himself so he can just stop and listen to Leonardo; to his words, and his breathing; to the fires crackling to his side; to the late night bugs chirping outside his window. Ezio does not move for a long while.

Leonardo’s hands eventually cup Ezio’s face and lift it so that their eyes are leveled, and he is speaking again, using short sentences coupled with gentle rubs from his thumb. Circular motions. Repetitive. Calming. Ezio slowly lifts his hand and rests it upon Leonardo’s, and he can feel his lips quivering again.

Ezio is being pulled forward effortlessly, and his jaw fits itself nicely into the crook of Leonardo’s shoulder. He feels each of Leonardo’s breaths with the rise and fall of his chest against his own, and when he speaks—just barely over a whisper—the vibration hums against him and grounds him back into a stable reality. Ezio lifts his arms and wraps himself around Leonardo, sighing into a jumble of sandy hair with snot bubbling out of his nose and loose tears trickling down his face. He burrows deeper into Leonardo’s neck and hears a quiet “shhh” tickle his ear.

He is mostly calm now, or as calm as one in his situation could be. The pair sits in silence, Leonardo not wishing to pry or pressure further, and Ezio wondering what he is to do next.

He has taken care of his father and brothers, and now he must handle the remainder of his family. The … remainder …

Ezio gurgles something disjointed, stopping himself when he realizes how difficult speaking is right now. Despite how upset he feels, he finds that he is … comfortable. At ease. He is safe. He does not feel hated or like the target of an entire city; he feels relieved. He knows that his contentment does not change much in terms of the day’s events, but it does offer him a temporary solace. For this, he is beyond grateful.

His eyes sting, and they close themselves naturally, their lids heavy. He sighs again, mumbling an apology and an incoherent, brief account of the hanging. He says he must go back to find his mother and sister … He must make sure they are not in danger …

After what seems like an eternity, he feels the grip around him tighten, and then gently release and lie him to the ground; a moment later, cushions are propped up underneath him, and a soft, broad blanket is carefully strewn over his exhausted body.

In his half-awake state, Ezio feels the warmth of a hand pressed to his head, combing his hair and instilling in him quiet reassurance. He is conscious enough to still feel distress gnawing away at him, but he finds that in this moment—surrounded by a soothing heat and a genuine affection—all he can do is drift safely into a dream, reminiscing fondly of his walk through Florence so many years ago.


End file.
